Teardrops of Tomorrow
by Lil Cosmo
Summary: Natalie Beatles just wants to know her heritage. There's nothing wrong with that. So she decides to dig through the past, uncovering the truth about her father and, at the same time, finding the truth about her self.


**AN: um . . . I guess this is about the bamillionth KND story dealing with war/4/34/ and a kid, but I wanted my own version added to the fray. It's in the future.**

Natalie Beatles had a slight 'obsessive' problem. If an idea struck her as somewhat 'okay', she'd toy with it, leave it in her mind for over night at the most, and the next day would not only know how to complete it, but she'd be trying to find a way to avoid the withdrawal symptoms once the project had drawn to a close. She also had what you'd call a 'head strong' nature. She was, to put it bluntly, stubborn. The day Tallie gave up will be the day hell freezes over and pigs literally fly (which, due to chemicals in the air, is pretty imminent).

Tallie picked up the phone, bracing herself for her next 'project', a tinkling of fear in her. Perhaps because this quest actually meant something to her emotionally. Or perhaps she didn't want her mother to find out what she was doing. Her fingers lingered on the keys of the phone, teeth digging into her lip, before breathing deeply and dialing the number.

"Hello?" A slightly suspicious, British accented voice greeted her, immediatly triggering her to hang up the phone.

Good thing Natalie generally ignored her good senses. "Hello, is this Mr. Uno?" She asked calmly, slight Australian accent not betraying the fact that she was border line hyperventilating.

"Yes . . . who is this?" His voice gained in an untrusting nature.

"Um, you wouldn't know me, sir, but I believe you used to know my parents." She applauded herself, believing she'd spoken in a highly sophisticated tone.

"That depends. Who are your parents?"

"Um, well, my mother is Kuki Bea . . . uh, her maiden name was Sanban."

"Kuki Sanban . . ." His voice trailed slightly. "Yes, I knew her. We went to school together."

"Yeah. Um, but really I wanted to talk to you about my father. His name . . ."

"Wallabee." This wasn't a question, but a statement.

"Um, yeah. You see, I'm making a short film on him for, um, a school project and I need to interview people to get information. For my school project!"

"I see . . . You're Natalie, aren't you?"

'How's he know my name?' She wondered. "Yeah."

"I remember . . . you must've been only four at the time . . . You'd be ten now, wouldn't you."

"Eleven next month," She said without thinking. "So I was wondering if maybe we could get together some time this week for the interview. I could come to your house, or meet you somewhere. It doesn't really matter."

"Today's Tuesday, right?"

"Yes."

"You could come over today, at five I guess. Do you live in town?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where thirteenth street is?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." An awkward silence followed this. "So . . . I better go."

The two exchanged farewells and the dialtone greeted the girl. She breathed deeply before preparing to leave. The reutine, familiar as all day to day reutines are, became awkward as she looked in the mirror, using the eyes an adult would use to analyze her. She was rather small for her age, 'petite' as her mother would call her, 'scrawny' and 'short' as her friends called her. Her hair, a mess of black on her pale skin, was cut in a rough pattern, short now, barely below her ears, and giving her a slightly elfish appearance. Strands of almost-bangs fell in her face, highlighted purple. The greatest feature of her entire face was her eyes, slanted slightly in her Japanese heritage, yet a deep peridot shade of green, a green vibrant enough to remind the elderly of days of their youth spent idly in the summer, playing games of baseball. Her eyes were slightly larger than the average, and gave her an inquisitive, inteligent look to her. Her lips pouted slightly, naturally rosy but not obnoxiously so, nor abnormally puffy.

She grabbed the brush, combing her hair back and grabbing a pale lavender headband, pulling her hair back out of her face and making it stick out slightly unruly behind the cloth of the bandana, but in a purposeful way. Still, bits of hair fell into her face, the norm for her. She shoved her hands into her jeans pocket, taking one last look in the mirror before taking off the headband and allowing her hair to flow any which way it wished. She made a face at the mirror, unsatisfied but too uncaring to change it.

She loaded the city bus, rumbling across town to a secluded, almost country esqu, area. She hugged the camcorder to her chest, worried that this was a waste of time, before exiting the bus and ringing the bell of the nice one floor brick house.

The door swung open, revealing an adult, probably in his mid to late twenties. Sensibly cut black hair resided on his head. He was tall, slender in a healthy way, and seemed content in the way he held himself. He wore casual wear, black slacks (but not jeans), and a blue shirt without a tie.

A startled expression of recognition crossed his face. "Are you Natalie?"

She nodded solemnly. "Is something the matter?"

"No. You just . . . you look alot like your parents."

She shrugged, not knowing what to say. "So, do you want to do the interview in your house or what? It's up to you."

Her voice also seemed to lend to his perplexed expression. "Um, inside's fine." He led her into the comfortably furnished, clean home. "Can I get you anything to drink or anything?" He was clearly uncomfortable.

"No, thank you." She held the camera in her hands. "Do you mind if we start now?"

"It's fine."

She flipped the switch, bringing the device to life. She held it up to he eye before beginning her interview. "When did you meet my father?"

"When we were six years old."

"How did you meet him?"

He smiled slightly. "It was a funny story actually. You see, I was . . ."

He drifted into the realms of the past.

Nigel Uno kicked the soccer ball against the wall repeatedly, bored out of his mind, but in a calming way, like a lull in a summer day. He noticed Hoagie in the distance, talking with some blonde boy he'd never seen before.

'Just like Hoagie, annoying strange kids.'

The truth was, Nigel rather enjoyed the company of the portly boy and was glad to be friends with him. He didn't understand half the things he talked about, the laws of reletivity and such, and didn't think his puns were all that funny, but he was a nice kid and was fun to be around.

The two seemed to notice Nigel. He pretended to ignore them, continuing his kicking until they were a few feet away from him.

"Do you have cancer?" The blonde asked bluntly, withour even being introduced.

The soccer ball flew off into the distance as Nigel stared at him in disbelief. "What?"

Wally shrugged. "Well, you're bald. The only other bald person I knew had cancer. But he died." Wally shrugged, as if disposing of a bad memory. "Well, do you?"

"No!"

"Then why are you bald?"

"I . . . I just am." He didn't feel the need to explain to the boy, who already seemed completly obnoxious and rude to the British boy.

"Oh. You should probably go get it before it gets run over."

"My hair?"

"No! The ball. I can get it, if ya want."

"What, are you gonna steal it?" Nigel asked dubiously, not putting anything past him.

"Wasn't planning on that, actually." He replied coolly. "I just thought since I'm closer to it, that I could get it. It's the, um, neighborly thing to do." The boy walked off, chasing after the rolling ball caught in the forces of inertia.

"Who is that?" Nigel asked Hoagie.

"New kid. Moved in a couple streets away. He's in our class." Hoagie replied.

"Is he always so . . ."

"So what?"

"So . . . like that?"

"Well, I just met him but . . . yeah, that's just the way he is. I thought you'd know. Maybe it's an Australian thing."

"I doubt it."

Wally returned, handing over the ball. "You like soccer?" He asked.

"It's alright." Nigel answered.

"I do. It's the best . . . well, after wrestling. I'm gonna be a wrestler when I grow up. Pro and everything. Actually, a boxer. Wrestling's okay, but it's only entertainment really. Getting hit with a chair probably doesn't even hurt that much."

"I bet if you were hit with a chair it would hurt you." Nigel replied.

"Nah, I could handle it." He said confidently. "Oh, my name's Wally by the way."

Nigel stared at him in slight amusement. The boy had evolved from cocky to entertaining in this short amount of time. Maybe he wasn't as obnoxious as he had seemed. "I'm Nigel."

Natalie smiled. "So that's where I get it from," She said softly, almost to herself.

"Get what?" Nigel asked.

"Um, nothing. Well, everything I guess . . . my personality and stuff. So you were friends ever since?"

"Yes."

She wanted to talk with him more, but noticed the clock hanging off the wall behind him. "Oh crud, it's almost 6:00. Mom'll be home from work soon. I better go. Thanks," She said, exiting the house.

"Crud . . ." The word struck a cord. How could someone be so like a parent? How could a person's heritage mold a person as it had to Natalie Beatles? Nigel hadn't felt like he'd been talking with a ten year old girl. He'd felt as if he were speaking with the actual Wallabee Beatles. And the idea was slightly terrifying.


End file.
